


Hungry

by IdMonster



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Forced Prostitution, Group Sex, Horror, Multi, Public Sex, Sex Work, trick - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-10 16:16:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20854640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdMonster/pseuds/IdMonster
Summary: Capitol escort Finnick Odair attends a party.





	Hungry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [draculard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/gifts).

Beauty was life. Charm was survival. A wink and a smile saved his skin better than a net and a trident, now that Finnick was out of the Arena.

Not that he didn’t _wish_ for a net and trident. Whenever he glanced over his shoulder, making sure to tilt his head at the perfect saucy angle for the benefit of whatever old man was pumping and slobbering behind him, he visualized stabbing the trident right through his soft pink face, at eyeball level: pop, crunch, pop. And whenever he looked up from licking at some old woman’s cunt (different angle, same sauciness), he wanted a net to whip her off her feet and into the water, and entangle her so she thrashed around uselessly. He’d watch the last bubbles leave her mouth and nose, and break the surface: pop, pop, pop.

He expected he’d be spending a lot of time imagining old Capitol fuckers dead tonight. Usually he was bought for one, maybe two or three at a time. But tonight he’d been purchased as a party favor, for the use of _all_ the guests. So far there’d been nothing but eye-fucking, innuedo, and a little light groping. But dinner hadn’t even been served yet. Finnick supposed he was the dessert.

“Oh, my,” purred a male voice. “Finnick, you look tastier than ever, if that’s even possible.”

The pleased, catlike smile Finnick had already plastered to his face instantly widened as he turned to his new admirer. “Want a bite?”

He turned slightly, letting the man decide which part of his body he’d meant. Finnick watched his gaze ooze over him, from bare feet to tousled hair. His stylist had outdone herself, that fucking pervert. 

Very unusually for him, Finnick was covered from neck to ankles. Sort of. He was draped in a delicate parody of a fishing net, cleverly cut so part of it clung to his body and part flowed around him like a cloak. A little pouch cupped his balls, and his cock was caught by a thicker strand of plastic that formed a ring around the base. A slit in the mesh provided easy access to his ass. And, of course, every bit of him could be seen and touched. Otherwise, what would be the point?

The man grabbed him by the ass and bit his left nipple, hard. 

Finnick winced—they didn’t like it if he didn’t show pain when they hurt him—and said with a laugh, “Leave some for the other guests!”

The man chuckled and walked off. Finnick watched him go, puzzled. He’d meant to address him by name, but he couldn’t bring it to mind. 

A crystal bell rang. A man was standing at the head of the table, ringing it. “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats.” 

Finnick couldn’t place him either. Thin, white-haired, with blood-red lips—a distinctive look, and one Finnick recognized. So why couldn’t he call up the man’s name?

_Everyone_ at the party looked familiar. There wasn’t a strange face among them. All of them had been his patrons before. And yet Finnick couldn’t recall any of them. That wasn’t like him. It was his _job_ to remember people, just like it was his job to be charming and willing—or scream, if that was desired.

Uneasily, he wondered if they’d dosed him with some drug that caused partial amnesia. But Capitol drugs had very precise effects, and he couldn’t think of the point of one that would make him not quite remember people. Full amnesia—to be made innocent again, as much as he ever had been, so he could be raped and abused as an unjaded virgin—now that would make sense.

Finnick strolled up, his body moving languidly. “You rang?”

The white-haired man indicated the table, which was laden with dish after dish of lavish food and covered with an embroidered cloth. White rose-lily hybrids floated in golden bowls. “You go under the table. Entertain us while we eat and converse.”

Nausea roiled Finnick’s belly, but he smirked and said, “I don’t think you’ll get much conversation done.”

“My dear boy,” said the white-haired man. “That’s the game.”

As Finnick crawled under the table, he heard a flurry of somewhat forced conversation arise from the guests, as well as the clinking of silverware and the sipping of wine.

Softly glowing panels were inset into the underside of the table, so Finnick would be able to see everything. The tablecloth was cut to a precise length and draped carefully, falling to the floor between the guests and cut high where they sat. Finnick didn’t dare take the smile from his face—there was no way there weren’t cameras so the guests could enjoy the movie later—but he looked at the array of pants and skirts and longed for his trident.

It wasn’t long before a pair of hands snuck under the table to lift a skirt. Finnick crawled over to the cunt he was presented with, licking his lips like he just couldn’t wait to taste it. As he bent forward and began to lap at it—it was both scented and flavored, which made him want to gag—a hard cock prodded him in the ass from behind. 

Finnick stretched out, obediently trying to service them both at once, but it turned out that wasn’t exactly what the cock owner wanted. Instead, Finnick was treated to the slapping sound of the old man beating off, in tandem with the old woman’s gasps and groans as he gave her head. Finally, a warm trickle over his ass and the woman shoving him away signaled that at least those two were done. 

_Two down,_ Finnick thought. _And… ten to go? Twelve?_

Odd that he couldn’t remember exactly how many of them there were. He knew he’d counted them when he’d sat down.

A hand caught Finnick by the hair and yanked him away. Finnick suppressed a yelp of pain as he crawled forward. The white-haired man had caught him—Finnick had memorized everyone’s positions. The white-haired man’s pants were unbuckled, revealing his erect penis. Finnick started to bend over it, licking his lips for the camera, when the man grabbed him by the shoulders, roughly turned him around, and shoved him down on his hands and knees.

Finnick made sure he looked shamefully excited as the man seized his hips and yanked him on to his cock. He listened to the party guests having a grand old time asking the man questions and engaging him in conversation as he thrust into Finnick’s ass under the table.

Finally, the white-haired man came with a groan. A very familiar groan, drawn-out and rumbling, almost like a chuckle. Finnick knew it well. 

It was President Snow’s groan.

And with that, he knew the rest of them. They were his patrons, all of them. Atilius Vine, who’d bitten his nipple at the party and had bitten him hard enough on other occasions to require scar erasing treatments. Vespasia Spark, who’d forced him to play-act being in the Hunger Games and trading sex for one more hour of life.

The horror of that recollection sent memory crashing through his mind like a tidal wave. Snow was dead. Finnick had seen him die coughing blood in the chaos after Katniss had shot Coin. 

All of them were dead. Vespasia Spark, Atilius Vine, Otho Cutroot—everyone at the party had died years ago. Finnick wasn’t an escort any more. Capitol had been overthrown. He was free.

Finnick scrambled away from Snow. “This is a dream. I’m having a nightmare. It isn’t real.”

A roar of laughter went up. Finnick jumped, and banged the top of his head on the table. The burst of pain sure as hell _felt_ real.

“Oh, my dear boy,” said Snow. “I assure you, we are very real indeed.”

“You died!” Finnick heard his voice rise into a near-scream. “You’re all dead!”

“Of course we are.” It was the thick, greasy voice of Decimus Needle, who’d liked to shove household objects like wine bottles and chair legs up Finnick’s ass. 

“You’ll wake up eventually,” admitted Tacita Oversmith. “But you’re not exactly dreaming. It’s just that we need you to be asleep for us to pull you into our world.” 

Finnick bit his lip, hoping the pain would wake him up. It didn’t. And the hands that were reaching for him—so many hands—felt as real and solid as his own teeth.

“It’s true what they say about ghosts,” said Vespasia Spark, seizing his head and forcing his mouth down on her cunt. “We’re _always_ hungry.”


End file.
